


Last Words

by Lyrium_Addled



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dreams, Gen, Oneshot, Post Reichenbach, sfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:45:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrium_Addled/pseuds/Lyrium_Addled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returns to 221b after Sherlock's death, and decides to stay the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Words

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little something I wrote because I have been heavily anticipating the third season and I have been meaning to write something for a while now. It is my first work posted here, as well. I hope you enjoy!

John sat alone in his seat, looking desolately at the chair in front of him. Everything seemed like a dream; the room hazed in his peripheral due to unshed tears. The flat seemed so large, so empty without the familiar sight of the detective fretting about, performing strange experiments, or periodically exclaiming “bored!”

John rested his head in his hands, the last words of the world’s only consulting detective echoing through his brain. _I invented James Moriarty… I’m a fake…_

_Goodbye, John._

“Sherlock” John whispered, a single tear threading its way through his fingers. He couldn’t believe those words. Sherlock couldn’t have been a fake, he just couldn’t. John had known him like no one ever before; he could catalogue every emotion, every movement, of the man, on a case and in the dark moods in between. How could anyone have faked that? Sherlock was a man with no equal. He was strikingly brilliant, fascinating, and an annoying git sometimes, with little or no regard for human emotion, yet he was still the most human person John had ever met.

No one had influenced John in such a way as that man had. He had spoken to therapists, colleagues, family, and friends prior to meeting Sherlock, and none had managed to rid him of that ever-present limp. Sherlock had done so in one night. A night of running, chasing a killer that had eluded them at every turn, which he would never, ever forget. He had missed the adrenalin pumping through his veins as they ran for their lives, and even now he felt as if the danger, the battlefield, had been taken from him.

John stood, walking slowly around the flat. He passed a fond hand over everything that was Sherlock’s, from the skull to the violin in its open case on the table. A sudden wave of emotional and physical fatigue hit him. This place still held too much of his absent flatmate’s personality. _One more night_ , he told himself. He had told Mrs Hudson that he couldn’t return to 221b yet, but he somehow found himself sitting in his chair, staring at the array of books lying around the place. _Tomorrow, I’ll grab my things and leave. No more; just one night. Then, I’ll lock the door and give the keys to Mrs Hudson. She’ll have to find someone else to take the flat._

His breath hitched at the idea that someone other than Sherlock would be living here; that they would probably throw out his old books and experiments. There would be no bullet holes in the wall, no eyes in the microwave, no violin at two in the morning, no cases, no Sherlock. He covered his face with his hands, steadying his breathing. _Maybe I could hold on to the place. Stay here. You might come back._

He glanced at the small analogue clock on the mantle, and groaned quietly. This was not something he wanted to be thinking about at 1:30 in the morning. He would sleep, and decide in the morning.

Before he could coherently collect his thoughts, he found himself in Sherlock’s bedroom. The bed sheets were still crumpled where Sherlock had last slept. John touched the pillow, imagining a small warmth was still held there. The room was immaculately organised, a stark contrast to the main living area and the kitchen. Everything seemed to be in perfect lines, just like Sherlock.

John sighed and took off his shoes before he readied himself for bed. He climbed under the covers opposite to where Sherlock’s shape was still discernable in the rumpled covers. He breathed deeply, savouring the faint, lingering scent of the detective on the pillow, and soon slipped into a deep sleep.

~:~

Darkness and explosives; snipers and missile plans. A voice in my ear, telling me what to say. _Gottle o’ geer, gottle o’ geer, gottle o’ geer._ Moriarty taunting, gun pointing, self-sacrifice. I won’t let him get you.

Just like that, he’s gone. You help me, removing the explosives and tossing them across the room. You scratch your head with the gun. It’s the lighter you got of the cabbie, isn’t it? Where’s my gun?

Red dots, threatening to take away everything. He’s back, breaking promises, ready to destroy. You point your gun at the explosives. _Stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive._ The call of a dark angel sweeps danger away.

You hold me by the arms, frantically assessing me. Am I injured? A sharp pain in my shoulder. Left. Blood seeping through my shirt, but you don’t see. I’m faint, but you don’t know what’s wrong. I try to tell you, but you can’t hear. There’s blood trickling across your face, your turquoise eyes vacant. No pulse. I try to reach out to you, but my right arm is trapped, my left useless. I try to call you, but my voice is stolen.

You blink, and the blood is gone. You are different, somehow. Your hair is shorter, eyes darker – not in colour, but in demeanour. You look at me with a depth I haven’t seen before. You lean forward and press a kiss to my forehead. I’m immobile as you whisper in my ear.

“Don’t worry, John. I’m still here. Just wait, and I’ll be back, I promise. Don’t give up.” I look at you, not understanding. You smile and say one last word: “Believe.”

~:~

John woke with a start, the final words of his dream running through his mind. It had seemed so real, like Sherlock was right next to him, speaking to him. He touched a hand to his forehead, and wasn’t sure if the slight dampness he felt was from his sleep-deprived imagination or not.

Regardless, he decided to abide by those words, and would wait in 221b until Sherlock finally came home. Because he knew Sherlock was coming.

He’d promised.


End file.
